


Festival Day

by naruhearts



Series: A Day In The Life [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Domestic Fluff, Festivals, Fluff and Humor, Homophobic language (minor), M/M, Mentions of homophobia, Romance, mentions of infidelity (not Destiel)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-06
Updated: 2018-02-06
Packaged: 2019-03-14 08:54:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13586643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/naruhearts/pseuds/naruhearts
Summary: Dean and Cas go to the Bee Festival, which is more packed than they previously anticipated.Lily wants pie.And Dean runs into an old flame.





	Festival Day

**Author's Note:**

> You can read Part 1 [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12312597). 
> 
> Don’t forget to subscribe to the ADITL series if you like it so far :D

The Bee Festival is located on the outskirts of town, tawdry highways clogged by extra-jovial families riding ugly red minivans, old Honda Civics and puke-coloured Ford Focuses. Dean isn't even sorry that his Chevrolet Impala 1967, streamlined and sleek and as black as darkest dusk, sticks out like a sore thumb. This is _Parenting In Style_ , if he says so himself.

"I’m hungry! Hungry!” Lily squeaks from her rear booster seat. She's wearing a cute bumblebee-patterned dress, bee hairclips tucking back wispy tendrils of her dark brown hair, and her freckles are visible under the cold October sun. Dean thinks he'll get an aneurysm trying to find her in the festival crowd, but nonetheless, Lily’s beauty is unattainable.

Just like his husband.

"We're close, little bee," Cas coos, turning around to caress their daughter’s face, touches gentle, and Dean’s floored as per usual, his stomach flip-flopping like a milkshake mixer each time Cas showers her with his endless affections; the snail-slow traffic gives Dean an opening—he rips his eyes off the road, planting a solid, messy kiss onto Cas’ pink lips.

He jolts, surprised, then quickly melts, fingers curling into Dean’s canvas jacket as his tongue demands entrance, and the searing warmth, the plushness of Cas’ skin, the supple, passionate press of his talented mouth ignites a low pulsing ache within Dean’s abdomen.

“Ewww, stop it, Daddy! Ick!” Lily yells. Her shrill voice shatters their bubble.  

Dammit.

Dean breaks away, panting, and Cas looks _debauched_ , lips spit-swollen and ultramarine eyes dilated; Cas rests his forehead against Dean’s own, chuckling breathlessly.

“Wow, sir, never pegged you for an exhibitionist, too,” Dean whispers, insolent in his teasing, and he sneaks one last kiss to the corner of Cas’ dimpled cheeks.

Cas sighs.

“You’re _ridiculous_ , Dean,” he remarks, overly fond tone betraying his glare, and Cas slides his hand down Dean’s side, apologizing to Lily with a crafted, thinly veiled insult along the lines of ‘ _reckless_ ’ and ‘ _impulsive_ ’.

“As if she’s gonna understand big words, babe,” Dean says, driving them across the snot-congested bridge. At this rate, it would take another thirty minutes before they arrive, and Dean’s frustration builds.

_Why the hell don’t their taxes go to improved transportation infrastructure?_

“She will,” Cas retorts matter-of-factly, and a palm settles upon his knee, squeezes, quelling Dean’s imminent road rage by distracting him.

“Lily’s intelligent, like her Daddy.”

Dean exhales through his nose, resisting the urge to spew profanities at some stupid dude who abruptly cuts in front of his Baby and almost scrapes her polished headlights.

"Duh—you have a PhD in Chem. S’not easy to assign, like, 'R/S configuration' to big-ass organic molecules.”

Truth be told, Dean recently snooped inside Cas' Not-So-Mad-Scientist lab (oddly disappointing, by the way) for a good mindless hour, and the faint deluge of spearmint assaulting his nose—Cas’ desk drawer the bizarre origin and tiny labeled test tubes packing crystalline powder—was significantly more pleasant than last time (last time: rotten eggs).

“No. I meant _you_ , Dean.”

Lily cackles in delight, drinking from the milk bottle that Cas lends her, his muscular arm outstretched.

Dean blushes, and he purses his lips into a faint smile.

He’ll never get used to Cas’ incessant adoration, but he ain’t complaining.

 

* * *

 

“Uh, wow,” Dean mutters, bodies swathed by dark-coloured winter coats pushing and pulling past their little family unit, and Lily is squirming in his arms, craning her neck to look at whatever fleetingly interesting thing has caught her attention. Cas follows behind him, light fingers pressed to the small of his lower back. Lily's Dora the Explorer backpack hangs off his husband's shoulder.

Parking was a bitch and the Head Organizer misplaced their tickets; Cas was the family’s saving grace, having presented two extra copies to the disgruntled lady.

Once they stepped past the gate, Dean whistled. Enclosed inside a four-fenced perimeter, the Festival held no bounds for _miles._ It was, quite literally, _Bee Movie_ overload. The atmosphere was hive-like, swarms of people flocking to endless bee paraphernalia: bee farm demos, bee journals and books (hm, _The Earth’s Farmers_ might appeal to Cas), bee furniture, bee garden statues (imagine _those_ glossy eyes greeting your unsettled neighbours instead of garden gnomes), honey candles, soaps, lotions, scrubs, and honey-based food items. Sunset hues painted the wide maze paths, several cartoon bee signs directing guests to the next exhibit.

This festival was some major annual bee fan convention.

And an unbidden visual of Cas lugging home ten bags of Bee Festival souvenirs, tiny bees bobbing atop his Disneyland-inspired headpiece, occupied his brain for a few speedy seconds.

Dean swallows down a hysterical snort.

"Man—s’it supposed to be this crowded?" he asks, catching Cas' eyes. "I'm gonna get the flu or something."

Cas smiles knowingly, guiding Dean and Lily around a pool of loud teenagers sipping honey-spiked pumpkin spice lattés.

"Stop it—you're fine. Although...did you _not_ go for your flu shots even when I asked you to a month ago?"

Dean clicks his tongue, and Lily is mumbling silly nothings, curious blue eyes transfixed upon a large bee made out of construction paper. It's glued on top of the ‘100% Organic Honey’ booth, rows and rows of quaintly packaged melon yellow mason jars attracting crowds.

"Er—"

"Don't answer that. If you fall sick I won't be there."

" _Aw_ , not even for one night, Doc? Plus rewards if I behave?" he complains, bottom lip protruding, and he deliberately bites the plump flesh, worries it with his teeth. Instantly he feels a writhing wave of satisfaction as he recognizes the fierce heat on his husband's face. Cas’ steady blue gaze soon becomes irritated.

"I’m serious, Dean. Flu shots _tomorrow_. If you get sick, _all_ of us may contract it.”

”Okay, okay, m’sorry, sweetheart.” Dean says, free hand wrapping an arm around Cas’ waist and pulling him into his side. “I promise I’ll go. So, aren’t you hungry?”

Cas' hand cups Dean's cheek. "Yes I am."

On cue, Lily shrieks, chubby hands chasing a helium bee balloon that has the words "Honey pie this way at the Bee Café!" written in orange script.

"Pie!" Lily cries, gummy teeth clacking together and delicate fingers wiggling.

Honey pie sounded like a true festival delicacy.

“Yeah! We love us some pie, _honey_ ,” Dean winks at Cas, who subsequently reacts to his pun with an exasperated eyeroll, lips folded. Lily giggles again, all wet breaths and restless limbs.

“How awful.”

“Hey! It wasn’t _that_ bad—”

“You should thank your lucky stars that you’re handsome, Dean. Now let me look for available seats.”

After offering Dean a poorly feigned stink-eye, Cas walks some few metres ahead of them, lending Dean a nice view of his husband’s round ass.

Those black dress pants—coupled with the waist-length suede coat that Dean had bought him for his birthday two years ago—underlined the sophisticatedly sexy arc of Cas’ muscled globes, dark pressed fabric hugging his pert lower spine. It took Dean’s utmost energy to keep himself (and little Dean) at arm’s length in the middle of a crowded frickin’ _bee festival._

“Daddy!”

“Huh?”

Lily’s eyes are astute, watching Dean check out her father. This ain’t the first time, anyway. Sue him—Cas was sizzling hot enough to date Idris.

Or Brad.

Or Ryan Gooseface—whatever his last name is. Dean knows he’s Canadian, and that he’s the jazz enthusiast in _La La Land_ who picks his dumb jazz career over Emma Stone’s awkwardly pretty actress character ( _no_ , Dean wasn’t actually paying attention. Two months ago Cas started watching it on his iTunes _every single week_ to the point where Dean had memorized _every single tacky line of_ _every single tacky song_ against his will. “It’s so touching, Dean! So bittersweet! You’ll like the epilogue,” Cas said. Dean trusted him. But to his primordial dissatisfaction, Dean felt like someone had doused his heart in bleach. How could they?! Because of this, he failed to grasp his husband’s obsession. The entire thing—their motivations, dreams, failures, and efforts—was now plain la la STUPID). And yet exactly _why_ Cas chose Dean’s nerdy, belching, unrefined face he will never know.

“Is Papa _‘gorgy’_ again?”

Dean boops Lily’s nose.

“It’s _‘gorgeous’,_ Lils, and hm, maybe I’ll tell you after we eat yummy pie.”

“‘Kay, Daddy!”

 

~~

 

The honey pie wasn’t yummy.

It was a goddamn disaster of epic proportions.

“ _Holy_ sh-”

Dean swallows his words and schools his features when Cas stares at him, inquisitive (even as Dean continues to shovel rubbery, undercooked pie bits into his mouth like a supportive husband should do). Thankfully, in under five seconds graceful fingers pull the fork out of his hand.

“I know it doesn’t taste good, Dean. There’s no need to pretend, though I appreciate the sentiment,” Cas remarks warmly, scooting closer, Lily seated in his lap.

Dean stares back.

For a moment, extraneous festival sounds fade. His hyperawareness spikes.

Their breaths intermingle, common body heat infusing skin, and Dean’s heart beats, swollen by age-old love. His husband’s blue eyes flicker with fond promise—

“ _Dean?_ Dean Winchester?”

Dean and Cas’ schmoopy reverie splits at the crystal voice, and Dean soon recognizes the teal pea-coated woman standing in front of them.

“I hope I’m not intruding—”

“You aren’t,” Cas replies, pleasant as always, and his tone is a soothing rumble. Dean blinks, surprised, and he temporarily diverts his attention to their visitor.

“I can’t believe this—I haven’t seen you in _years_! And oh my _god_ , is that—”

Dean nods.

“Yeah, this is my husband, Castiel, and our baby girl, Lily. Say hi, Lils!”

“Hi,” Lily hiccups, sucking on her thumb again. Beside him Cas tuts, pushing her hand away and skirting it around oral territory.

Dean observes their visitor again.

Her dark hair is short now, wavy ends brushing her collarbones. She looks...happier. Meek but confident.

Her hands settle atop her swollen belly.

Three years before he met Cas, Dean had worked side jobs alongside mechanical gigs, and one of them included bartending at that tiny coffee place Sam frequented so much when he was a gangly limbed high school Honours student.

Lisa Braeden—wide smiles and coy laughter—was a regular guest. Dean initially asked her out after their first encounter, but Lisa realized he was simply looking for a good lay. Upset, she refused to be someone Dean threw away, and she begged him to respect her integrity.

She embodied the characteristics Dean once thought he wanted. Hot, smart, and optimistic, she was the only female partner who didn't make fun of his low flexibility. They were together for a year (a damn long time in Dean's books), and Lisa's passion for human rights was fascinating. She intended to major in human biopsychology, loved animals, and practiced veganism so religiously that Dean was convinced she was too good for him.

Of course, Dean suspected that all these amazing things weren't going to last, and the end eventually came in the form of a jacked muscley dude Lisa was seeing behind Dean's back.

The dude swaggered out of Lisa's bedroom, unsettling eyes full of nonchalance.  

Dean hadn't engaged physically.

As much as he wanted to punch him, Dean felt that turning his back to Lisa—walking away without a word—was the high road.

That was also the last time he saw her.

If anything could elicit an acrid taste in Dean’s mouth, it is infidelity.

Dean got piss-drunk that night, tried to blow off some steam, except the chick was too smashed to unzip his fly. Instead, he found himself in the backseat of a broody guy’s car. He was rugged, had good, broad hands—a New Orleanian. Quiet and attentive, he took Dean apart with that sweet tongue, silver eyes resembling haunted twilight stars.

Dean wanted to contact him again, but he never did.

And so he drifted for those three years, not quite self-assured nor hoping he could open his own auto shop, yet life held other plans. Money, though still scarce, trickled in as soon as Uncle Bobby offered him an apprentice position at Singer Parts (mostly thanks to Aunt Ellen. She figured Dean was wasting time hanging around the Roadhouse and disturbing Jo’s “peace a’ mind” most nights). Needless to say, Dean no longer scraped the barrel trying to sustain both him and Sam, and his motivation stitched itself back together.

Once his brother graduated, full ride scholarship to Stanford tucked below his belt, they skipped the school’s formal Graduation dinner to hold a family picnic. Sam, spicy chicken wing between his fingers, gesticulated proudly to their parents’ gravestones like his oratorical voice could penetrate the bowels of the afterlife, but Dean did know—deep within his heart—that Mom and Dad were proud.

“You think they ever feel disappointed in me?” Sam asked, and the question had caught Dean off guard.

“What’re you sayin’?”

“Dunno. I remember Mom ‘cause she spent the most time with me, but Dad? Not so much, though I know he carried himself differently. I mean, he seemed like he was a ‘shoot first, questions later’ type. A simple weathered guy. For some reason, I think…I think if he was alive, maybe he would’ve disapproved of my lawyer dream. Said it was ‘ _too flashy_ ’ or something. Too ‘ _try hard_ ’.”

“Sam! Dad would’ve supported you either way. Where the hell’s this coming from?”

Sam’s lower lip quivered.

Dean had sighed, and he opened his arms immediately, Sam dragging him into an embrace that crushed his bones.

“You miss them, man. Me, too.”

“I—I just— _how could he?_ What was going on in his brain when he ran the red light? T-they—if he never—they would’ve _been here_ —”

“Shhh, Sammy, it’s okay. You were a kid—”

Sam let go of Dean’s jacket, shiny-eyed and furious.

“—but still old enough to see that Dad was an _alcoholic,_  Dean! He was fucking drunk while driving Mom home and you dropped out of _school_ after she died to raise me and—let’s just go. Thanks for dinner.”

Sam had left his brother there, Dean picking up the remnants of their sorry picnic, and despite time having smoothed the pain, softened its jagged edges into bearable background fixtures, Sam still expresses silent defiance towards John Winchester every now and then. Dean would see it in his hunched shoulders, taut lips and wordless sighs.

 _I wish Dad died first instead of Mom,_ he’s saying.

If Dean were a traditional Bible-thumping conservative son, he’d dismiss his younger brother’s anger. Call it misplaced grief and bitterness that their father was undeserving of. But Sam’s feelings _weren’t_ misplaced.

What was the truth?

The truth was that their mother, a strong-willed registered nurse, worked hospital night shifts, and in her absence, their father had beaten Dean to a bloody pulp on most super late nights of inebriation, Sam unawares as he studied upstairs. Glassy-eyed John, pungent breath an unwelcome greeting. He believed Dean was “an anomaly. Some…some fucking mistake. No respectable son a’ mine’s a cock-sucking _faggot._ H-how the hell d’you think I feel when I see you, Dean Winchester, lusting after _manflesh?_ Preferrin’ them dirty abominations over God-fearing broads who are able t’give me grandkids of my own damn blood?!”

Dean was often careful, treading upon thin ice. Then John discovered him in his unlocked bedroom trading innocent horizontal spit with Nathan, his hazelnut-eyed English project partner.

He slept fitfully, cradling a broken nose, and tears stained his bruised cheeks. Then he told Mary, her lovely face frightened and worried nurturing hands patching up her eldest son, that he crashed his bike into a pole.

She believed him.

Dean hence refused to give Sam the metaphorical double-edged sword—the nail in the coffin that would seal his simmering fatherly hatred forever.

Hatred was poison.

And Dean learned it the hard way.

In retrospect, Lisa paved his path to Cas, who ultimately filled the lonely cracks of Dean’s life with pure hope—who shone nebula-bright and swallowed Dean’s broken self like it was an integral part of him, an infinite extension of _belonging_.

Dean smiles.

“Sit down, Lisa—”

She ducks her head, bashful.

“Oh, it’s okay, I’m meeting my hubbie Brandon at one of the souvenir booths. This Bee Festival is _packed_ , isn’t it?” Lisa exclaims, patting her stomach, and Dean fears the impending awkwardness due to cutting off contact with her so suddenly (and for too long).

Dean swallows, and his peripheral vision captures Cas scrutinizing him, curious. Lily’s well-behaved.

“Tell me about it. Cas wanted to go for _months_ —he’s a bee extraordinaire.”

Lisa giggles, amused. “Really? Same with Brandon! I always see him reading that book _Bee Time - Lessons from the Hive_ by Mark Winston—”

Dean’s husband agrees, tells her: “Respectable choice. I own a copy,” and Lisa claps her hands in delight, surveying Cas. Her intrigued eyes drift to their daughter, and she leans forward, joyful, wiggling her slender fingers.

“Little girl! You’re _sooo_ pretty,” Lisa coos. Her tone is sickeningly amiable; Lily’s chubby arms flail in response, shy blue eyes hooded.

To Dean’s absolute relief, palpable awkwardness doesn’t materialize.

“What do you say to her, bumblebee?” Cas asks. Lily bites her lip, hiding her face in Papa’s coat, and Dean’s love for his beautiful family glows like violent embers.

“T-thank you,” Lily mumbles. Dean kisses her small forehead.

Lisa stands there, hands now caressing the curve of her belly. She seems subdued—intends to say something else; her brown eyes are forlorn, but she second-guesses herself, then makes her decision, visibly apparent in the shift of her countenance—the way she straightens her back and grins wide.

“So, um, I think I should go. Brandon’s waiting—”

Dean pushes his chair back to stand, gestures at her.

“That’s too bad. By the way, congratulations on your upcoming baby. Cas and I wish you the best.”

“Yes, we hope you undergo a safe delivery,” Cas adds. He’s irrevocably sincere, and Dean adores that about him: his intrinsic ability to connect, to show kindness in all its various forms—especially towards someone from Dean’s past, during a time where opaque curtains still shrouded his self-assurance.

“Thanks, Castiel. Your family is gorgeous.”

The air thickens in resolution.

Lisa turns to Dean. She’s cheery, yet he can spot the wistfulness decorating her gaze.

“See you ‘round, Dean.”

And with that, a solid finality, she disappears—engulfed and spat into the mass autumn crowd.

Cas lends Dean ample minutes to himself before he speaks again.

“Ah, _she’s_ the Lisa Braeden you talked about.”

Dean sits back down, sheepish, rubbing his neck. Lily bounces in Cas’ lap and pokes at her quarter-finished crumbling pie montrosity, then teeths the blunt rounded end of her plastic fork despite his husband’s repetitive ‘ _No, Lily. Not this, Lily’’_ s.

Dean offers Cas an apologetic smooch upon sugary lips. “Yeah—sorry babe, she just—”

“Dean, I _know_ what Lisa committed towards you. You told me over New Age sangria, remember?”

Oh, yes: their eighth date. Dean strongly recalls fluorescent violet hues, sunburnt odours, bizarre New Age sitar music and those umami extraterrestrial sheep brains (Cas was adamant for ‘Bucket List Food’—whatever it entailed), but his recollection of sharing this particular timeline with Cas was vague at best.

“I did?”

Dean earns another staple eyeroll.

“You were quite tipsy. Said ‘ _I’ll love ‘ya better than she ever loved me_ ’, and...I think that was also the first time you confessed your love.”

His husband’s eyes are an earnest electric blue, kissing Dean’s soul.

 _Goddamn, I love my angel_.

He wraps an arm around Cas’ waist out of zealous impulse and tugs, moves Cas closer until their sides are flush, no personal space remaining.

Dean can feel the rush of wonderful body heat between them, seeping through and uniting.

“Now _that_ I remember,” Dean growls, brushing his lips against the outer shell of Cas’ ear just so.

Cas swats him away. Then he stifles a choked giggle, the sun-tinged bronze hue of his face turning into pigeon red, and Dean bends down to retrieve one more discrete kiss—smacks his wet mouth against Cas’ jaw.

Lily’s indignant little ‘Blech, Daddy!’ pulls them back to Earth.

Cas clears his sandpaper throat.

“‘Course you do. Anyway, I still want the rest of this pie to-go.”

Dean smooths his palm down the creased valley of Cas’ dress shirt, kneading firm skin. His lips are suspended in typical uncertainty regarding his husband’s questionable life choices (on occasion, mind you).

“ _Why?_ It tastes like crap—”

Cas affixes him with an icy stare, but he’s still terrifyingly handsome.

“I _like_ it, Dean. Wasting food is wasting resources. Am I right, bumblebee? Now get it packed while Lily and I go to the bathroom.”

Lily’s small arms entwine, circling Cas’ lithe, corded neck as he takes her into his arms.  “Food is good, Papa!”

Dean watches them disappear behind the door.

Their daughter’s giggles are a melodic harmony, like glassware toasting and chimes colliding, and Dean will treasure her—treasure his husband—for as long as he lives.

 

* * *

 

Dean, Cas, and Lily congregate on an open grassy field, the frosted chill of autumn brushing against their clothes like an enthusiastic welcome until the Bee Festival fireworks show begins. Burnt oranges, maple browns and plum reds are spread beneath their feet: nature’s carpet mosaic, and the sun settles deep, pulling the blanket of pomegranate navy dusk over her body as if she’s waiting herself.

Dean quips to his husband that the generic view is photographic fodder; Cas, to his surprise, agrees, withholding his usual monotonous responses of “ _Too mainstream_ ” or “ _That’s not a philosophical deconstruction_ ”.

“There’s a certain...joy to be had here, don’t you think?” Cas says as he hands Lily to Dean and unfolds their marzipan picnic blanket. “Other families loving the company, stuffing themselves full with rubbery honey pie that you’re _irrevocably_ better at baking, family members sharing disastrous life-ruining puns—”

Dean scoffs, nipping at Lily’s cheek.

“You tellin’ me to bring Sammy and Eileen next time?”

“Yes.”

Cas playfully hits Dean’s cheek with an open palm and scoops Lily up. Their tiny family settling onto the blanket, Dean seats himself behind Cas’ solid back, husband and daughter between his legs, and he hooks his tired chin over Cas’ shoulder.  

“Where’s the fireworks? I want _skaboosh—_ ”

“Shh honey, we’ll see them in a few minutes.”

Lily turns around and cranes her neck upwards, moist breath from her open bubblegum mouth puffing out tendrils of vapour. She’s inquisitive again, round blue eyes like opal gems in the fading daylight.

“Oh, I forgot—will you and Daddy go _skaboosh_ , too? Unca Sam says that when he plays puzzles with me!”

Needless to say, Cas is mortified, and Dean chokes on his own spit.

 

* * *

 

After a particularly scintillating Breakfast for Dinner of crisp bacon, peppered egg omelette, and fluffy pancakes drizzled with honey maple syrup from the Bee Festival (plus three—well, four—fresh asparagus and celery as per Cas’ request), Dean had such a hard time putting squirmy Lily to bed, excess sugar saturating her blood, and Cas had admonished him for it earlier, irritated Antarctic blue giving his husband literal cold eyes for most of the evening. Thus, they were subjected to _Planet Earth II_ until Lily’s small head slumped over Cas’ shoulder, Mars-coloured Island crabs scuttling across their 64-inch plasma television.

Dean shifts beneath the covers three delicious post-coital hours later, falling atop Cas and slotting his naked thigh between olive legs. Cas simply hums in return, his throat pebble-grit and sensual as practiced fingers run through Dean’s sweaty blonde hair.

Laser numbers flick to 11:30 pm on their bedside table, neon red illuminating the sharp planes of Cas’ cheeks, chin, symmetrical nose—all brilliant architecture and beautiful Impressionist lines, and Dean can’t help it: this busy day tossed him into a hurricane of deep bliss.

Who knew he’d enjoy a _Bee Festival_ so goddamn much?

Dean latches his spit-slick full mouth onto the bolt of Cas’ jaw, tongue scraping stubble. He tastes like sea salt brine and grassy garden and rich fertile soil, an earthy musk that Dean can _always_ manage to distinguish even if he was surrounded by fifteen dark-haired cowboys and their lassos.

Cas groans quietly, soft vibrations rattling Dean’s own chest; Dean sighs at the sparkling touch of those hands—meek, great, loving hands sliding up and down his freckled back.

“ _Mmh_ , so good, baby—”

“You’re _insatiable_ , Dean.”

“Don’t care. Seeing Lisa again reminded me of how lucky I am,” Dean coos, voice muffled in the crook of Cas’ damp neck, muscles robust and steak-firm: enticing enough to bite, and Dean does, drawing a sacred moan from Cas’ parted lips.

“Is—is that so?”

Dean continues his love-drunk trek upon Cas’ skin, transfixed and eager. “I—adore—you,” he whispers, holy, punctuating each word with kisses, marking his husband up as he sucks, _hard_ , and Cas arches under him, spine taut, their bodies rubbing. A rhythmic tune revitalized. Dean’s fingers dance across the dunes of his hips, flesh and bone, so _lovely—_

Cas wraps his legs around Dean’s lower back.

 _“_ Dean— _please_.”

They _skaboosh_ together.

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on [tumblr](http://naruhearts.tumblr.com)


End file.
